


Pestilence Befell You

by joaniedark



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: ;), Blow Jobs, Hemipenes, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Occult rituals, Oral Sex, Other, Xenophilia, coiling, dubcon, sexual bargaining, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 09:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joaniedark/pseuds/joaniedark
Summary: A devilish pact in the woods made by a young prince and a monster.





	Pestilence Befell You

If Lucio were to tell the story of the time he met the wyrm, there would be a few things to keep in mind. First off, were he ever to let loose the secret of how he plotted his parents' death and carried pestilence that eventually spawned the plague that was his own demise, he would have to have been incredibly drunk. Lucio was not known to be a smart man so much as a flash bastard, but if he had managed to put two and two together on the nature of the plague, he would likely know better than to let that slip. Such inebriation, combined with Lucio's frankly excessive pride, would have contributed to a huge number of inaccuracies and falsities in his story of his meeting with the wyrm. Lucio was a brave man, after all. A strong man, a man who would fear no magic nor beast.

Montag feared the wyrm.

He did not know what to expect when he saw the patron demigod of his people before him, but it was certainly not the wyrm he met. No, he supposed in hindsight that it didn't matter in the least what he thought Vlagnagog would look like, as the being that towered high above him was not the deity he had been taught to pray to as a child, anyway. Perhaps Vlagnagog was not a sickly white thing, whose maw made disgusting wet noises as it spoke, licking its lips with those thin tendril-like tongues as it looked him up and down with it's vacant milky eyes. One day Lucio would laugh, saying that anyone would look at him like that, he was delicious after all. Montag, warrior prince though he might have been, could only feel fear at the idea of the wyrm slowly digging its sharp teeth into his flesh, separating muscle from bone. He was able to keep his composure, however. Hatred for his mother, her careless discarding of her only son and rightful heir, was enough to keep his head straight. This...thing, this looming beast in its lair that stunk of brimstone and decay would be as capable of aiding him as any wyrm.

It cheerily spoke of Vlagnagog's death and the foolishness of generations of greedy humans keeping their meat, starving the great serpent to death. The words echoed in his mind, reminding him of his father's teachings of hunter versus hunted. Perhaps this beast that offered no name would actually be a superior ally to Vlagnagog after all.

"Empty words do not fill our bellies," the wyrm said, letting each word slowly roll off its tongue like it was enjoying the taste of each syllable. "I will not be so easily wooed as he was." The wyrm gave that same appraising look, and this time Montag felt a frisson of fear and disgust course down his spine. The beast reached out to him, running one long finger softly over Montag's jaw. He swore he could hear the beast sigh, small and longing.

"Why have you drawn me out, Montag, son of Morga and Lutz?"

Montag grinned wide.

"You need my help. Trust me."

"How do you suppose." It was more of a statement than a question from the wyrm, who cocked its head and narrowed its eyes slightly. Something about watching the weighty rings dangling from the large holes in the wyrm's ears swing and pull made Montag nauseous.

"Well, you need to eat, right?" Montag asked, gears starting to turn in his head as his hamster of a brain decided to run on its wheel. He puffed out his chest, eliciting a chirp of interest from the wyrm. "You seem like the type that likes blood. I'm known to be the type to spill some. We could work something out, don't you think?"

"Blood? I have no appetite for it. I will settle for no less than meat." The wyrm's eyes roamed down a moment, and it slithered a little closer. It started to drag its finger down Montag's throat and over his collarbone. The teenage prince gulped. He was somewhat unsure of the direction this was going, but all possible answers he could come up with were…unappealing, to say the least.

"Of course. What was I thinking? A powerful being like you. You said you were the worm of pestilence? I'd love to get my parents sick.” Montag looked at the clawed fingertips now being dragged down his exposed chest. “Lend me...any one of your hands, and you shall have meat. The best of the best." The wyrm chuckled, a deep noise that sounded something between a gurgle and a growl.

"Interesting...perhaps we could come to an arrangement. But know this, if you want my help..." The ground rumbled, and the wyrm looped its long body around Montag’s. Its face opened into something resembling a smile, one of its tongues poking out from its fangs and darting over Montag’s jaw. He whined in fear.

"I'll need something of yours."

"S-something of mine, huh?" Montag asked, incredibly aware of the hand unbuckling his pauldron strap with disturbing ease. “How about—”

The wyrm cut him off, pressing one of its secondary tentacle arms against his lips.

“Princeling, I think you can imagine what it could possibly be I want of yours.”

Montag breathed heavy, his face inches from that of the wyrm. To its credit, its hands and tentacles had pulled back, and it seemed to be waiting for an answer of Montag’s own accord. Its mouth closed and the corners pulled up in an attempt at a softer, friendlier grin than the one it had before. For all the sulfurous stink of this part of the forest, the wyrm itself seemed to smell of slightly too-ripe fruit, and its warm body squeezed him gently. Montag studied the wyrm, grimacing before finally giving a curt nod.

“For the power I’m looking for to kill the asses keeping me from my throne? Sure, I’ll do it. I’d deliver my parents’ hearts on a silver platter to you, for fuck’s sake, I can give in to something simple as this.”

“Excellent,” the wyrm purred, squeezing Montag tighter. He coughed as the air was forced from his lungs, eyes going wide. The wyrm acted quickly, catching his open mouth with one of its long fingers. It held his jaw open, turning Montag’s face as it made contemplative noises. Montag didn’t mean to close his mouth, not _consciously_ at least, but he internally smirked as he felt the wyrm tense when his lips wrapped around its fingertip.

“You are full of surprises, princeling,” the wyrm said, wrapping its other hand in Montag’s hair. One of its tentacle arms stroked down the wyrm’s long torso, while the other started shoving the fabric of Montag’s open shirt further to the sides. “I’d almost think I’m not the first of the Devil’s beasts that you struck a bargain with.” Montag snorted, unable to properly laugh as he pushed his head down the wyrm’s long finger. The wyrm hissed and pulled its hand back, wiping Montag’s saliva off on his waist.

“And I’d think from how pent up you are you’ve _never_ made any deals with hot young humans,” Montag said with a smirk. The wyrm just chuckled. Montag’s eyes darted down for a moment, stopping to stare as he saw the twin bulges the wyrm was starting to coax from a slit low, close to the coil. He quickly averted his eyes, preferring to start by simply running his hands over the wyrm’s trunk. He had thought for some reason that the wyrm would be slimy, covered in the strange secretions he had encountered on the trees. Surprisingly, it was dry and rubbery, soft and very slightly warm to the touch. He felt a bizarre series of tiny muscles tense up under his hand as he drew it down the wyrm’s torso towards its hemipenes, eyeing the things warily. They looked somewhat dangerous, a pair of bright, swollen tubes easily the size of his forearm and covered in discolored spikes. He looked back up at the slack-jawed monster’s face, watching it softly pant in anticipation. As he was about to touch one, he felt a hand on the back of his head, pushing his face about an inch from one of the star-flared heads.

“Perhaps…you would like to show your worthiness? Do you deserve _all_ of what I have to offer?"

Montag hesitated a moment before tentatively licking one of the large, pink bulges. The little pale ‘spines’ along it’s surface turned out to be soft, each one bending and flicking back into place as his tongue ran along them. The wyrm’s scent was heavy and heady, and the sweet taste of its flesh was almost sickening. It looked expectantly down at him. He swallowed his pride and deftly swallowed as much of the shaft as he could. It was an impressive sight to behold, considering the lack of warmup and how wide he had to stretch his jaw, despite how much he was unable to cover. The wyrm hissed in approval.

It was a rapid and nasty affair. Montag went straight to work; sex with a hideous monster had never been exactly high on his list of priorities. Still, he bobbed his head diligently, swirled his tongue in intricate patterns. He may not have been as much of a hunter or warrior as his mother’s impossibly high standards demanded, but by god he knew how to do _this_. Working as quickly and sloppily as he could, he almost grew to enjoy the musical sounds of satisfaction it made.

The wyrm came in a hot, sour torrent, gushing forward from both hemipenes forcefully. The flood down his throat made him choke violently, unable to swallow it all. He could feel some of it in his sinuses and lungs, his eyes watered, he was _drowning_. He had never had any issue before with the concept of ‘drowning in cum,’ but it had always felt a lot less fatal in fantasy than now. Excess dripped from his mouth and nose, dribbling down his face to join the hideous splatter from the other cock that coated his entire chest. He barely felt the wyrm uncoil from around him as he sputtered and tried to blink back the tears and burning pain in his respiratory system.

“Gravest apologies,” the wyrm rumbled, voice sounding distant like Montag was underwater. His vision was dark and faltering, but he could somewhat feel a hot, wet tongue languidly drag from the bottom of his sternum to his Adam’s apple. Another choking cough, and suddenly he felt his airways open up again, the fluid magically lifting from where it had settled in his chest. _On _his chest was another story, he noted with disdain as he looked down at himself, becoming cognizant of what a disgusting mess he was.

“You made me fucking _filthy_,” Montag grumbled, and the wyrm shook its head. Its tongues swiped over the sliced soles of his feet, healing as quickly as his lungs. It looked back up at him, its eyes narrow but amused.

“I feel like you are already filthy enough, little parent-killer,” it said. Montag felt a rush of cold over his body. He wrote it off as the wind on rapidly-cooling cum, as that was somewhat less disgusting than the concept of feeling some _guilt_ over their deal.

“I eagerly await feasting on those hearts, Montag, son of Morga and Lutz. I wish you the best of luck in your murderous attempts.”

Montag groaned and opened his right eye.

“Don’t sound so smug—” Montag started, but he shut up with surprise when he realized the forest was bright with morning light. Had he really blacked out so fast? He touched his skin—slightly sticky, but completely dry, without visible muck on him. He reeked of this disdainful patch of trees, not of the beast rumbling beneath the dirt. He looked at his hands. If he crossed his eyes slightly, he could see the milky aura pulse over them.

He got to his feet, quaking on tired limbs, and brushed himself off. Looking around, he saw no sign of the wyrm. With a shrug, he turned back to the village, eager to enjoy his birthday slaughter and his ascension to his rightful place.

~*~

Years later, Lucio was a newly-appointed count, glorifying in the power that his newfound position gave him. He had scraped himself along, through the blood and flesh of hundreds, followed by a trail of widows and crimson beetles through the countryside. Now, he finally had the luxury and adoration he had always known that he deserved. The palace, the parties, the beautiful fiancée, _everything_.

He, of course, still had to appoint a court. Courtiers, he had heard, were both a major status symbol _and_ a way to pawn off the tedious work of being a political figure while focusing on the more indulgent aspects of nobility. He had been told of some good recommendations by the Marquis who had given him his holdings, and without even a thought he had signed off on the positions for his council.

Today, he was going to be meeting the Praetor, some guy named Vlastomil. What even was a Praetor? God if he knew. He just _needed_ one, and apparently this guy was his. Did something with judging things, or something of the nature. Lucio had always been more of a trial-by-combat guy, so never really saw the point of a judge. But no matter. Vlastomil. Sounded like a wyrm na—

Lucio stopped dead in his tracks as he opened the door to his parlor and saw the man in long, black robes drinking a cup of tea the servants had brought to the room. The man looked up at him with eyes white as milk and grinned.

“_Princeling_. Fantastic to see you again.”


End file.
